My days are rich, yet numbered
like the numerals on the rows
of houses that seem to go
infinitely on, but end.
My life is complex, yet ordered
into all the daily do’s
and chores that make up
the hours of the days
that seem to forever fly, but end.
My time with you is now, yet fleeing
like the hands on the clock
that race to catch up with tomorrow
until the plug is pulled,
and the seemingly ceaseless tick tock ends.
My love for you is boundless, yet measured,
poured slowly until the cup is empty.
But here it does not end.
It spills seeds, eggs, sugar, flour
to make babies and bread
that endure to keep our poem,
rich, intricate, alive.
Lynn Benjamin
February, 1981
A Valentine poem to Bob.